


Narene and the Tonal Instruments

by EhCanadian



Category: Elder Scrolls
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-18
Updated: 2019-05-18
Packaged: 2020-03-07 09:04:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,647
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18870055
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EhCanadian/pseuds/EhCanadian
Summary: Over twenty years since the second great war ended. The Dragonborn is gone. A new plague unleashed upon the races of men in Tamriel. Narene of Winterhold, a naive but talented alteration mage, must find the tools to summon the Dragonborn before events escalate; the tonal instruments. Meanwhile an idealistic Altmer named Gyran is on his own self-guided journey. To bring about the destruction of all human-kind on Tamriel to ensure elven and beast supremacy rule once more.





	1. Tidings of the Last Dragonborn

Tidings of the Last Dragonborn

Speculations and conjectures regarding the last Dragonborn. A small muse.

I remember seeing the lad make his way towards my throne within Dragonsreach, his armour sullied and ashened, his face bleached by a black mess of sut and rubble.

I could believe this stranger regarding the news about Helgen. About the return of the dragons. It wasn't until I heard the stories of the guards who witnessed him absorb the essence of a dragon after slaying it, then the call from the greybeards, did I know this man, this stranger, was a Dragonborn. A mystical figure my father would tell stories about to me as a young boy before bed. 

My only hope was that he could bring the title Dragonborn, and the power of the th'uum, to justice. The Stormcloak leader, Ulfric, had tainted the mystical art of the voice to his own benefit when he struck down the high king of Skyrim. 

It would be a long time before I saw the Dragonborn again after he made his way up the seven thousand steps but I heard the whims, the tales, and the myths echoing across Skyrim. Legends of a wanderer who would battle the dragons as if he were one himself, some say he would take the visage of a dragon in the midst of battle. Some say his shouts would rattle their very beings to a core. Tales told in conjecture and broken tongue. 

The skeletons of hundreds of dragons litter Skyrim's grounds now, some looted, pillaged, and used as decor. Some used as tools of study for mages, alchemists, and historians. Some left in peace in the spots they were slain, the soils and snows of Skyrim slowly burying them with time. 

The Dragonborn came to me for help, to use Dragonsreach to trap a dragon. To do this he halted a war and initiated a truce between two men so opposed to each other they'd might as well have been water and fire. I knew I could put the trust of me people in a man who could halt a war that had already taken so many.

When the beast was captured and the Dragonborn released it, I watched as they glided across the cool skies deep into the Velohi mountains into the mythical Skuldafn into Sovngarde. The world eater lay defeated to the Dragonborn, as the prophecy foretold.

It would be a long while before our paths crossed once more, but there were times. He aided my son when the Daedric Prince Mephala attempted to manipulate him. He secured the ebony blade, a weapon of true horror, of which I witnessed. The Dragonborn took it, what he did after remains unknown to me, something I am content on not knowing to this day. 

His aid towards the Imperials garnered their victory in Skyrim and I still here tales to this day about his battle against Ulfric Stormcloak. The battle of the tongues inside the Palace of Kings. Indeed the Dragonborns was far mightier, as he dealt the final strike against Ulfric with a shout so mighty he had turned to ash. Or so the legends say. In my last visit to the palace I saw the shear destruction caused by their voices, the stone walls are being rebuilt to the this day. The truth is unknown, my belief is General Tulius dealt the final strike but painted the Dragonborn as the hero to inspire all of Skyrim and the Empire itself. 

His encounters with the Dawnguard brought an end to a vampire crisis rising in Skyrim, a crisis that took the lives of many of my guards and citizens.

The truth in my knowledge fades from here, the Dragonborn travelled to the island of Solstheim to deal with yet another crisis involving dragons and another Dragonborn from long ago. But the details have since spread thin and lost to time.

His dealings with the College of Winterhold brought about him as the arc-mage. Something to which I know as a fact.

The rest is rhetoric, hearsay, and speculation. There are echoes and tales about the Dragonborns involvement with the Thieves Guild and the Dark Brotherhood. With one rumour speculating that the Dragonborn was the one who assassinated Emperor Titus Mede II and annihilated his entire guard, leaving no survivors. I do not bother with such nonsense, it isn't a fact I can believe. The Dark Brotherhood were the ones who perpetrated the act, no doubt. But to say it was the Dragonborn? The man who brought about an Imperial victory, who has always been loyal to the empire?

When the Dominion invaded Hammerfell years later and breached the White Gold Concordat, he was there with the Imperial armies. I only wish I could have been there with the Empire and the Dragonborn. The legends that come from this battle, the mightiest of High Elven battlemages were no much for the Dragonborn's th'uum and his militia of dragons serving under him. The Dominion took to calling him the deterrent. That he was their single biggest threat.

With a new treaty in place, Talos worship was reinstated once more. The Dragonborn's status was almost as legendary as Tiber Septim himself. With each passing year they only grew. 

I never did see the Dragonborn again, side from just after the battle. I was told each time he entered the city however his visits were not longing. Soon as days and months went by I began hearing less and less of the Dragonborn, his daily adventures were fading into nothingness. The last confirmed sighting of him was at the College of Winterhold, before he disappeared into a nightly blizzard on the back of a dragon.

This was over twenty years ago. The Dragonborn hasn't been heard from since. Who he was, his appearance, powers, and personality remain only with those who were close to him. The rest are legends and perhaps that is what he intended.

As I write these memories and ramblings in my final years there is one thing I know. When Tamriel, no, when Skyrim needs the Dragonborn once more, he will return. I will carry that belief to Sovngarde with me, where I hope to one day greet him once more.

-Jarl Balgruuf


	2. Chapter 2

Prologue - The Second Great War - 4E 205

    What started in Hammerfell has almost come to a bloody and hefty ending.

    Imperial troops lined scattered throughout the torn battlefield of Alinors once neatly glassed roads. Healing mages were doing their work, the barely injured who still had their strength were dragging the dead to be burned. Smoke loomed above, structures toppled by catapult shots and blazing mage fire. Bodies on both sides scattered about, some charred to almost ash by dragonfire, others impaled, there was no lack of variety to the carnage on the field. Almost a dozen dragons circled above, following in unison of each other. Aldmeri soldiers who surrendered were bound and lined against the outer wall of the main castle. 

    The weather lied dull and silent, the sky a natural calming blue, the sun barely gleaming past the smoke plumes escalating higher and higher. Birds that once chirped were gone, and a bustling population of Altmer people were either lying lifeless on the roads, hiding amongst the chaos, or treading far away to escape.

    "Alinor is nearly ours gentlemen! When the Dragonborn regroups we'll march on to put an end to this Dominion." Commander Areus commanded.

    Groups of soldiers had been pillaging through the local residencies, taking what they pleased, taking who they pleased. The cries of Altmer children and women echoed throughout the streets until falling silent one by one. The commanders and soldiers turned a blind eye. They would tell themselves the evil of the elves, what they did to them for years, to their culture, their religions. They never condoned it but wouldn't do anything either, their most vial members continued to do as they wish.

    "Please! Please stop!" A woman's voice screeched. She fell blaringly out of a resident door, falling down the steps leading to the road. Her bleach blonde hair had been tattered, stained with her own blood. One of her eyes was a hue of dark blue, swollen shut. She gazed upon the rest of the soldiers whose attention had all diverted to her. "Please, please don't let him do this anymore."

    "Stupid elf bitch! Stop making this difficult!" An Imperial soldier followed down the steps from the home.

    No one else was stepping in.

    He grabbed her by the hair and her screams began growing as she thrashed about while he started to drag her back up the stairs.

    "Momma!" A small voice cried from behind the soldier.

    A small elven boy leaped from the home, tackling the soldier over the stairs, making him release the woman. He followed suite. They tumbled to the ground where the boy thrashed his weak arms to strike the soldier as best he could, the soldier guarded his face, the others started to laugh.

   "You done angered the little shit!" One joked.

    "Keep on hitting him kid, right prick deserves it!" Another chanted.

    Commander Areus just watched from afar, arms crossed, disinterested by the situation.

    The soldier struck his arm up to hit the boy directly on his nose, a smooth trail of blood splashed from the strike almost instantly. The boy was almost thrown in the air by it. He crashed beside close to his mother, his vision a dizzy haze.

    "No! Gyran! Please! No! Stay back!" The Elven mother embraced her child, "please one of you?! We do not fight, you have won! Stop this!" She pleaded.

    "Little bastard broke my damn nose!" He screamed. "To Oblivion with this! Not worth it!" He drew his sword and made his way towards them.

    "Bloody hell, man! Take it back a bit!" One soldier cried yet remained stationary just watching. 

    "Close your eyes my son." The mother elf turned her son's face away. She closed her eyes next, tears now slowly gracing her cheeks. "I love you so much Gyran." 

    The soldier loomed above them and raised his sword to initiate a hard bash downwards. His wrist was grabbed by a black-armoured hand.

    "No more. This isn't why we are here." A calm stoic voice stated. "Drop the weapon and return to your normal duties."

    "I am not. Did you see what that little prick did to my face?!" He retaliated.

    "Judging by the terror inflicted in his mother, and the strike you so heroically just inflicted upon a child, I'd say you are even." He let go of the man's wrist and stood in front of the duo.

    Gyran turned his closed gaze away from his mother and faced upwards at the straight-standing figure. He stood donned in gleaming ebony armour, masterfully crafted in every crease of it, the sun gleamed off it, blinding the child. His head was donned by a an equally dark masked hood. Nightingale. A red cape draped off his left shoulder with the rune of a dragon on it.

    The Dragonborn.

    "Aye lad. Back to your duties. All of you! Curtain has closed on the show." Commander Areus commanded.

    The soldier backed down and trudged away, holding his nose.

    The Dragonborn turned back around and kneeled next to the two. His face remained sheathed by the mask.

    "Are you two alright?" He inquired, "we have an area outside the city keeping civilians, I'll have you escorted."

    "You expect a thanks from us? Look at me. At my son. At our home. Look at the bodies. We never asked for this!" She cried and hugged her son while standing, refusing the Dragonborn's assistance. "I will take my son myself."

    Gyran's eyes were drawn aback by the Dragonborn, not in awe, but terror. The stories of such a man were diluted to his ears by the Thalmor hiding the truth of his power. Then again, the Thalmor denied dragons had returned yet Gyran could gaze upwards to see the truth on that matter.

    "I thought you were supposed to be a good guy, like the stories." He whimpered out loud, "but you're a bad guy." His young eyes had also only just begun scanning the carnage mostly brought upon by the Dragonborn. The bodies of his people lied scattered as far as he could see.

    The Dragonborn stood silent. The child's comments might have affected him at one point, years ago, but they only scathed over him now. At least he thought that right now, but he kept replaying the words again.

    "You two get along now then. You'll see a guarded outpost on the way out. I will make sure no harm comes of you on your way." He stated. His mind focused on the boys words still.

    The mother elf scoffed at the Dragonborn, she wanted to say so much more, her blood was at such a boil. But it would be effortless, she knew the day had been won. She took Gyran and made her way towards the south exiting gates. Gyran watched the Dragonborn from over his mother's shoulder, he watched him as well.

    Gyran and his mother didn't speak. His mother's eyes were dilated completely gazing only on the road ahead.

    "Momma? Why were none of the soldiers getting up? Why were their arms and legs gone?" He was almost unphased by the sights, innocent of the thought of death.

    "Silence for now my child. Momma needs." Her voice had a small whimper. "Momma needs to just. Just walk." She mumbled, a single tear fell down her cheek.

    Gyran turned back at the city. The dragons above began descending, more explosions were heard.

    "Why are they doing this? The soldiers said nothing would happen."

    His mother said nothing. Her eyes only darted on the path ahead.


	3. Chapter 1 - Narene

Narene and the Tonal Instruments (Narene of Winterhold, Gerteron Bantois).

 

  1. Narene of Winterhold



 

“7000.” Narene’s breath steamed in the cold air as she exhaled a victorious breath.

She’d finally made it, High Hrothgar. The journey some trivialized while others had exaggerated. Narene found it to be in between both those statements. She brushed off the accumulated snow and took in a few more breaths; she removed her fur hood and mask to feel the gentle fall of each snowflake graze her face, her nose, and her semi-pointed ears. It felt tranquil here compared to the journey upwards where each flake struck her in a fury of a blizzard. Here she felt she could listen as each one touched the ground. 

It warranted meditation she pondered, which she guessed was why the Greybeards located themselves here. But meditation wasn’t her mission, not at this moment at least. She donned her mask and hood again, both more drenched than she realized. She made her way up the final stone steps to the doors. Every aspect of this structure felt ancient, built in a time forgotten by people with believes now near extinct. She faced the door. A heavy old-fashioned nordic door, twice the height of herself. She took in one final breath before pushing.

It took little might from her to open the doors, a surprise to Narene, she kept pushing until she found herself in the hall. The door behind her eased itself shut on its own while Narene was left pondering where she was. The very essence of her Nord-self felt this prideful joy sooth it’s way through her body, here she was, standing within a piece of Nordic culture, one of the prides of Skyrim. For a structure as old as this one it was the furthest thing from being dilapidated, the stones held as well as any fort, perhaps even better than the mightiest of castles.  It was darker than she pictured but her eyes were still adjusting from the snow-blindness, the ceilings rose high in stone and imposed almost a sense of dread and conflict yet strangely, perhaps magically, she had never felt more comfortable in a strange environment her entire life.

Narene felt whispers creasing their ways through the halls, bouncing off each ridge in each stone. There was no finite direction, she could hear them speaking from everywhere. She could only gather partial pieces of what was being said. 

“An intruder?” The voice whispered.

“No. A guest.” A second continued.

“Can’t be her.”

“If not.”

“We remember.”

“Indeed. This could very well be”

“Which means we already know.”

“I will approach.”

Narene witnessed an elderly man graze his way through the empty shadows of the castle, the torched flames almost following each step he took. His grey-hooded robe was accentuated by its masterfully tailored design, riddled with runes of old. The man himself was beyond an age Narene could pinpoint. His beard white as the snows in Winterhold, tied on the ends, and his elongated face as wrinkled as any old-man she had ever seen. But he carried himself as well as any young man, his back straight, his composure modest. A man forged by a lifetime of understanding what few understand anymore.

“Greetings, young traveler, I am Arngeir.” The man’s voice almost an echo yet she could feel it tickle through to her bones.

Over a dozen in similarly fashioned robes emerged throughout the various corridors, gazing upon Narene without uttering a sound. All varied in ages, young men, to middle aged. Training to be greybeards.

“Greetings, Arngeir. Greetings to all of you.” Narene nodded. She swallowed in the back of her throat. She wasn’t sure how appropriately modest she needed to address them yet, Had she invaded their space? Would they even acknowledge her, or tell her to leave?

“We see very few travelers ever enter our monastery in these times, some leave their kind generosities, some come in groups to master the voice and become a greybeards. As time goes on fewer and fewer individuals enter through our doors.” Arngeir spoke.

“The last one was the Dragonborn I am guessing, To venture up here alone?” She inquired.

“Indeed. But even with the Dragonborn we summoned him to make the journey. You have come on your own volition, not an easy accomplishment. So intrigue us traveler, with a name first.”

“I am Narene of Winterhold. More specifically the College of WInterhold I suppose.” She gave a light chuckle.

“If your business is arcane related, or in seek of ancient knowledge to benefit your college I am afraid we cannot help you.”

“No, no. it’s not that, I promise. Actually I want to go back and talk about the Dragonborn.” She reassured.

“I’m afraid I can give you little details you may not already know regarding him yourself, Narene of Winterhold. We summoned him and showed him the foundations of the voice. A talent he had already mastered inertly because of his blood, something no other mortal being could ever do. But I believe even that is knowledge you can find. I can provide you with little other than that.”

“I am trying to find him. I know you probably don’t know where he is, but anything you do know. Please. We need him.” She sighed. She was exhausted from her trek but part of her wondered if it would mean anything in the end asking the greybeards these questions.

“Hmm.” Arngeir pondered while grazing his beard, “You are right, I do not know where he is. We haven’t had contact with the Last Dragonborn in sometime I am afraid.”

“I...Understand. I am sorry to bother you in your meditations. I’ll leave now. Thank you for your hospitality.” Narene closed her eyes and began to put her hood back up.

“Might I ask why you need to find him? If he cannot be found perhaps that is because he willed so.” Arngeir pondered.

“Things are not looking good for us right now. A plague has been inflicted upon various races of men across Tamriel. Many have died. Many are sick and their conditions worsening. A plot by an Altmer.” She replied.

“You wish to locate the Dragonborn to solve a plague?” Arngeir asked. “I have heard echoes of a disease spreading across Tamriel but you are the first to bring to fruition this knowledge to me.”

“I know because Hermaeus Mora told me. He showed me the written plans from a radicalized Altmer. Each piece written matched with evidence showing plans on a disease created to only infect species of men. I know things are going to get worse before they get better. The world needs the Dragonborn.”

“Knowledge from a Daedra. Despite being a daedra who hoards that which should not be known, how can you trust him? How can you be sure?” Arngeir grew slightly annoyed but remained intrigued.

“This particular Altmer is his current champion, one planning to betray him. His last champion was the Dragonborn. Of which even Hermaeus Mora doesn’t know the location of and this bothers him.” Narene took a moment, “listen, I understand I am not explaining this well, but people are sick, they are dying, we are getting weaker and I know the Altmer is waiting for his moment to strike.” She justified.

“Pity political matters, wars, disputes, and conflicts mean little to the Greybeards, young mage. We are bound to a philosophy of peace, one that isn’t easily tested or shattered.” Arngeir stated bluntly.

Narene closed her eyes and sighed.

“We cannot assist you in anyway in that regard, and neither our oldest members nor myself know where the Dragonborn is but I can tell you of the last time I spoke with him, out of respect for the conviction we all see in you. To have made the journey you have, you believe you are on the right path, I will only hope it leads to one of little conflict.” Arngeir offered.

“Thank you. Anything you know is more than I do.”

Arngeir nodded, “shortly after the Dragonborn shattered the Aldmeri Dominion’s forces and forced upon a treaty of peace and submission he came to me and my master for guidance. He was afraid. Afraid of what he had become, straying from the path of the voice, using his mastery of it to inflict carnage on a battlefield. There was only peace because of the thousands of bodies he helped lay.” Arngeir prefaced.

“So he was afraid of his power?”

“Indeed. Dragonborns can display godlike prowess in their sheer mastery of the voice. Their potentials are unknown, possibly limitless as expressed by Tiber Septim.” Arngeir pondered and began walking. Narene followed.

“What happened next?”

“I informed him as I did when we first met, that Dragonborns are the exception to most of our rules. We are allied to him, we can teach him, we can show him, guide him to an entrance. But he is not bound to our philosophy and it is not in our responsibility to force him to follow it. I offered him solitude here at High Hrothgar. At this time the Dragonborn had attained more knowledge regarding the voice than I or any Greybeard could in two lifetimes.” Arngeir slowed his pace and sighed, “I admit a distant anchor in myself wished he could stay to share his knowledge. A Dragonborns perspective is one only few Greybeards can witness once in an era.” 

“But he never stayed?” Narene admired the masonry even more as she continued walking.

“He never stayed. He had to follow his own way, as all Dragonborn must.”

Narene nodded and remained silent. The details fascinated her but didn’t bring her any closer to finding him. She didn’t want to express her disappointment so evidently to Arngeir. “Is there anyway possible for me to find him? Maybe you can summon him again? Like you did before?”

“This I do not know.” Arngeir stated, “and we cannot summon the Dragonborn once more. Only one time may we call upon a Dragonborn to make the journey, a feat that is done once every few centuries. We are sworn to not interfere and in this instance it indeed would.” Arngeir explained, “perhaps he found it best he never be found. His reasoning for that, his motive and philosophy is his own and we shall not go against that.”

There was just silence between the two as they walked. The dimness of the torches lighting the hallways gave Narene an unwanted feeling of pessimism. If the greybeards had no knowledge of the Dragonborn’s whereabouts than who did.

“Serana.” Arngeir stated, “with the Dawnguard. She was closest to the Dragonborn more so than anyone. She will know more than I in ways to get the Dragonborn to aid you.”

The Dawnguard didn’t exist anymore but Narene didn’t fault that on Arngeir, they simply changed titles to the knights of the Dragonborn. If there was a Serana as close to him as he said there was then possibly she is still there. The two made their way back to the main hall where the rest of the Greybeards remained.

“Then I suppose I will be heading there next on my journey. Thank you Arngeir. This temple is beautiful, I feel strangely at home here.” Narene pulled up her hood

“We do not gain many visitors these days, none asking questions such as yourself, it’s a welcome to have. I wish you the best on your journey traveler, may Kyne guide you on your path to find the Dragonborn.” He smiled, “but one thing I must ask.”

“Oh? It would be my pleasure.” Narene nodded.

“You are a mage of alteration.”

“Aye, I am.” She stated proudly.

“Then you could have found any number of simpler ways to make your way through those doors yet you walked the journey. Not an easy feat.”

“I suppose, my Nord blood just told me this was something I needed to accomplish. That my ancestors in Sovngarde would be watching and smiling at me from above. It was one of the hardest things I have ever done and I was tempted to use magic multiple times but it’s a path least travelled upon. Maybe I wanted to see if I could do it, or that I needed to prove something, but in all honesty I just knew it was what I needed to do on this journey I am on now.” She pondered.

Arngeir said no words, he gave a gentle smile and nodded as Narene did the same back. She gave a slight bow to the monks watching her back towards the door and exiting into the snow-blinding abyss of the frigid mountain terrain. She took one final glance back to the monastery while heading down its steps.

“I'm going to have to cheat my way back to college.” She chuckled to herself. 

Behind her a simmering green tear started to take form, the dull breeze of snow started to warp around the growing circumference of the tear that gradually began to open up. The air, light and sound began to refract around the area, gradually darting away from its source. She brushed her arms past the seams of her cloak. Her fingers moved in a rhythmic pattern while one of her arms slowly started to swirl in a calculated motion. A green flashing rune sparked in her swirling hand, the tear began opening further. A now green-like ring composed of steady green flames opened with a large black core, a portal to step through.

“I hope I can come back here one day. I hope the Dragonborn can as well.” She smiled dimly before embracing into the darkness of the portal.

It closed like the spark of a light going out and just as fast. The snowfall returned to its normal pattern.

“May you keep walking the correct path traveler. I fear time itself will be tested once it is said and done.” Arngeir said to himself before going to find his prior place of meditation.


End file.
